Tamsin listens without interrupting, then pulls a bound booklet from under the desk and opens it flat.

"Process, then. Plainly." She taps the first page. "A visitor may inspect the accession register — the intake book — for any entry, on request, in this room, with me or my deputy present. You don't need to own the parcel, deliver it, or explain more than a legitimate reason. 'A card said something odd' is a legitimate reason. You may copy entries by hand; you may not take the register itself off the desk."

"Current ward records — ledgers, tax rolls, delivery receipts — are the same, with one exception. Anything marked restricted needs a written purpose and my sign-off, and I can refuse. I do, sometimes, when the purpose is 'curious.'"

She turns to the back of the booklet, where a shorter page is written in a more formal hand. "The bell-metal master register is different. It's not mine. It's the city's. Access to the vault requires a written request stating the specific records sought and the purpose, and it must be countersigned by someone with standing — a ward officer, a licensed surveyor, or a magistrate's clerk. Then it comes to the registrar's office upstairs, and they approve or they don't. I can tell you the requirements. I cannot grant them, and I don't influence them."

_Countersigned by a licensed surveyor. That's a door, not a key. Someone would still have to agree to put their name on it._

Tamsin closes the booklet and looks at [traveler name redacted] a moment longer. "One thing more, since you mentioned the card. You said it named both streets. In whose hand — do you know? And the accession mark on the parcel, if you have it, I can look up the intake entry while you stand there. That part costs you nothing."

She pauses, and something in her expression tightens slightly, the way a person's does when a question brushes against an old irritation.

"Fair warning, though. The accession register has gaps. Older numbers, particularly from around nineteen years back, are missing entries — not crossed out, not voided, simply absent. I've reported it twice and been told the older volumes were consolidated. I've never seen the consolidation record." She shrugs, flat and unapologetic. "That's the office's answer, not mine. If your number falls in a gap, don't expect an explanation from this desk."

I stay half a step back, saying nothing, watching. _She volunteered the gaps. I've never heard her do that before. Either the missing entries bother her more than she lets on, or something about this morning's parcel made her think of them._